Tempting Fate
by Ruadhnait
Summary: My lesson to you, friends? Don't mess with Mandos, because as both the House of Fëanor and I can attest, he has a rather exceptionally sickening sense of humor. In other words, my contribution to the Plushie Toy Collaboration. Rated for mild instances of swearing.
1. So You Think You Can Mess with Mandos

All due credit goes to the Prof (who must be _spinning_ in his grave right now) and to the great minds of Crackers and Duilin, who hatched this whole shtick.

Updates will not be as frequent as I would like, but they will be as frequent as I can make them

I.

I close my book and stare at my sister. "I _said_, what do you think it would be like to have Elves living with us?"

"Hmmm," she says, flipping a page in her chemistry textbook and scribbling furiously in her notebook. I flop back against the couch and groan. She looks up, mildly irritated.

"Ruadhnait, if you can't be quiet, would you go somewhere else?" I sigh and gather up my own long-neglected Caesar book and the page that, while supposed to have a completed essay on it, instead has _Maedhros Fëanorian_ written on it ten times in neat cursive.

In the next room, I try to focus on the 'military and tactical significance of exchanging hostages among the Gauls' (damn AP Latin), but again find my mind wandering. What would it be like to have Elves? I lean back in my chair, twisting a loose strand of red hair around my finger. To have Elves living with you, following you around- I smile ruefully as I imagine the likes of Elrond or Lindir reacting to the strip malls and housing developments of suburban America. "I wish I could have Elves," I say aloud. "I really do."

I go back to the next room where my sister is still bent over her chemistry. "Hey," I say. "I just wished for some Elves." She laughs at me.

"You daydream too much," she tells me. "And you read too much Tolkien."

"That's for sure," I admit. "No, really, wouldn't it be fun to have Elves living with us?"

Now she stares at me. "Fun? Are you crazy? Do you have any idea how much trouble that would be?"

"Yes," I say humbly. "But it would still be kind of fun- I mean, wouldn't you love to meet, say, Fëanor?"

"Actually not," she replies. "Isn't he kind of nasty? I hope you're not actually thinking that this would happen, because first of all, Elves aren't real-"

"They are!" I cry indignantly.

"-because Elves aren't real," she continues patiently, "and this would never happen, not in real life anyway."

I sigh. "Yeah, I guess you're right."

"As always." I roll my eyes, and go back to my homework. I decide that the essay isn't going anywhere anytime soon, and instead pull out biology. It isn't long, of course, before mitosis and diploid and haploid cells cease to hold my attention. My pencil wanders.

_Maedhros Fëanorian_

_Maedhros Fëanorian_

_Maedhros Fëanorian_

_Maedhros Fëanor-_

Drat.

After dinner that night, I hit the books again, and by sheer force of will (though that assuredly isn't much) manage to finish what was so woefully ignored earlier. The clock reads 11:23 as I crawl into my bed. Welcome to my life.

The next day dawns cold and damp, with not a gleam of sunshine penetrating the blanket of iron-gray clouds. 12:13 PM finds me at the post office, shoving the usual collection of bills and catalogues into my backpack. A thin piece of paper escapes from the bundle and flutters gracefully to the scarred linoleum floor. Cursing under my breath, I bend to pick it up. Apparently I have a package to claim at the counter.

"Chilly, isn't it?" the postal worker remarks, accepting the slip of paper.

"Freezing," I reply, then my eyes widen at the sight of the package before me. It's easily three feet long, bulky and awkward. How am I going to carry this the ten blocks back to my house? I heave it into my arms, surprised by how light it is. I shake it carefully, then become aware of the irritated glares of the customers waiting in line behind me. I duck my head and hurry out of the building into the pale winter daylight.

Somehow, I manage to lug the box home without any major mishaps (that is, if you don't count dropping the confounded thing in the middle of the crosswalk with cars waiting on both sides). My mom looks up as I enter the house.

"What's that?" she says, indicating the package.

"Beats me," I say, shrugging.

"I haven't ordered anything lately," she says with a frown.

"It's addressed to me," I say.

"Well, look at the return address," she answers practically, stooping to pull a tray of muffins out of the oven. I oblige, but am bewildered by a neatly printed 'Not Applicable' in the upper left-hand corner, with the cryptic initials 'N.V.M" beneath.

"There isn't any," I say. By now, the whole family has gathered round to watch.

"There has to be one," Catherine insists. By now, the whole family has gathered round to watch. I shrug.

"Not this time."

My younger sister gets right to the point. "What's in it?"

That I don't know. It has my name, or pen name at least, Ruadhnait Fëanorian, and beneath it my address. "Only one way to find out," I say, reaching for the scissors. I slice through the packing tape, suddenly irrationally nervous, imagining what could lie within. A human head. A bomb. Old bones. (Blame it on _Supernatural_.) I thrust aside the cardboard flaps and dig through a mound of packing peanuts (Grace shrieks in delight) to reveal, not dismembered body parts, not poison, but four innocuous-looking plush dolls lying at the very bottom, angelic smiles sewn on to their plush faces, tags tied to their floppy wrists. I sit back on my heels, speechless. The situation would be hilarious if it was conveniently fictional (if only!) but alas, nobody is laughing.

"It must be addressed to the wrong person," my mother says, but she doesn't sound so sure of herself. "They must have gotten the post office box number wrong."

I roll my eyes. "They got the name right. And what kind of person has a name like Ruadhnait Fëanorian?"

"You do," Grace points out.

"That's just my pen name," I say. I lift one of the toys out of the box, examining it gingerly. Yes, plush, stuffed like the battered animals heaped on my sister's bed, but made in the impeccable likeness of… I read the tag attached to the one I'm holding. 'Maedhros Fëanorian' it reads, in flowing script. Yes, fiery red hair, rather taller than the other three, and even missing a hand. "They're Silmarillion characters," I say hopelessly. "This one's Maedhros."  
Three pairs of incredulous eyes stare back at me. "_What?_" Catherine speaks for all of us.

"Elves," I repeat. "Like, Tolkien elves. That's what I said. Look, here's Aredhel." That one has long dark braids, a silver and white dress, and a hunting knife. "Celegorm." Fair-haired, (the pedant with the all-consuming desire to make the third son of Fëanor's proper hair color known rejoices), with even Huan lying beside him. "And Lúthien," lily mantle and all.

"What exactly are you supposed to do with them?" My younger sister has a knack for stating what everyone else in the room is thinking but is too polite (or too baffled) to say.

"I haven't the faintest," I reply airily, stuffing the plushies back into the box. Peanuts fly everywhere, and Grace lunges for them. No doubt the pesky packing material will reappear later ground into our carpet. I head upstairs, leaving my sisters still stunned and my mother to see to the (surely blackened) soup on the stove, and plop the box down in the center of my room. I wince at the bright light spilling in through the windows and walk over to lower the shades, dodging the treacherous music stand that seems to place itself directly in my path, and inadvertently topple a stack of textbooks. I groan and bend to pick them up. _Selections from the Gallic Wars_ and _The Longman Anthology of World Literature_ stare up at me accusingly, not to mention the accursed _Music in Theory and Practice, Sixth Edition_. I attempt to close the closet doors that gape to disclose rows of brightly-colored skirt and scarves, plaid kilts, the improbable amount of suits and blazers that I have collected, as well as an impressive array of prom and concert dresses hanging on the inside of the doors, and my glorious collection of high heeled shoes lying helter-skelter in the foreground. (I have a running love affair with impractical shoes. I once fought, hard, for a pair of bright blue seven-inch pumps at Kohl's. Only in hindsight have I come to the reluctant conclusion that they might have been the tiniest bit impractical.)

I turn back around and stare at the plushies. I could swear that, out of the corner of my eye, I saw one move. I stare harder. They are utterly immobile, and it must be just the light tricking me into thinking that Celegorm's smile is just a little bit snarkier. I sigh, crossly. "You're worse than those Aragorn and Arwen Barbie dolls," I tell them, and, promptly stuffing them in the already overflowing closet, I head downstairs.

The rest of the day passes without incident, and at 11:58 PM I am sprawled with my laptop on the couch, doggedly determined to finish season 5 of _Supernatural_ if it takes me all night. Actually, I'm on the last episode, "Swan Song", but I swear that no show has ever seemed longer.

_In the old, overgrown cemetery, Lucifer and Michael circle each other warily. "It doesn't have to be this way," murmurs the devil sympathetically, possessing Sam Winchester with all the ease and elegance that he obliterated a room full of innocent people. Michael, in the form of Sam's brother Adam, glares back defiantly. _

_ "Yes, it did. Because I'm a good son."_

I think I hear a muffled thump coming from upstairs. Never mind, it's probably just the air conditioning or something. I settle back onto the lumpy pillows and turn my attention to the fight unfolding on the screen.

_Michael raises his hand, almost visibly calling on all his angelic powers. Before he can strike, though, the rumble of a car engine and the impossible sound of classic rock blasting shatters the taut silence. Both Michael and Lucifer turn, utterly stunned, to see Dean Winchester, his face grim and set, driving up in the Impala, just as he promised, not going to let Sammy die alone._

Another thump, this time very audible. I hear the distinctive sound of my music stand clattering to the floor, and a raised male voice speaking a language I have never heard before, something between Finnish and Italian.

And then my sister's panicked scream. I leap to my feet, snapping the laptop shut, and race upstairs, skidding and slipping in sock feet on the slick wooden floor. I nearly knock my mother off her feet as I pound past her up the stairs. She is absolutely white with shock. "Rue," she says, her face white. "There's somebody in your room. I don't know who they are or how they got here. They just- appeared. I don't know-" Her voice cracks, and rises. "I'm going to call the police."

I stop dead. My stomach seems to have suddenly transformed into a ten-pound weight. "Wait," I say. "Please. I think I know."

"Well, if you know them, for God's sake get them out of this house!" I push open the door. Yes, indeed, there in the corner between the closet and the desk. Four Elves. One fair-haired, with stormy grey eyes, a large dog by his side, and the look of some beautiful wild animal. A tall woman with dark braids reaching past her waist. One with coppery hair, with one hand (or lack thereof) stuck in the pocket of his jeans, towering over the others, which is saying something, seeing as how they're all 6'3" at the very least. And then a figure of such dazzling beauty, of such impossible beauty, more petite and curvy than the other woman, dark hair loose and floating around her shoulders. Lúthien _Elves_.

"Crap," I say weakly. "Oh, _crap_."

My sister whimpers faintly. "Go on out," I say to her. "Just let me handle this." She runs past the Elves, shutting the door very quickly behind her. My hands are trembling, and I squeeze them tightly together. I try to find something rational to say, but the very inelegant "What the _hell_ are you doing here?" comes tumbling out instead.

Maedhros stares back at me blankly. "I thought _you_ could tell us that." Apparently he can speak English after all. But I like his accent. Beautiful long vowels, a soft _th_, otherwise almost like British but with something else that I can't place.

"Well, I can't," I say shortly. "Look. I got four plush toys in the mail today, and now at midnight- they turn into you? How am I supposed to explain that?"

All four Elves look startled, indeed almost outraged. "We were never plush toys," Celegorm says in a soft and dangerous tone.

I snort. "Yes, you were." Maedhros shuts his eyes tightly.

"Tyelko…"

"_We were never plush toys_," Celegorm repeats through gritted teeth. I hadn't noticed until now the knife he's brandishing. "_do you understand me?_"

I back up slowly. "Yes."

"Repeat after me," he says, still not satisfied. "We were never plush toys."

"You were never plush toys," I mutter. He nods, satisfied, and crosses his arms.

"So. Now you tell us."

"Tyelko, she doesn't know," Maedhros interrupts.

"Oh yes she does." My first encounter with the sons of Fëanor isn't going terribly well.

I shake my head. "I don't. See, here's the box." I drag said cardboard apparatus out from under my bed. Celegorm glares suspiciously at it (and me), but Maedhros takes it and examines it carefully.

"N.V.M," Aredhel reads over his shoulder. "That means-"

"Námo Vëfantur Mandos," Maedhros says slowly. And there follows a long and vehement string of Quenyan curses. At least I guess they were curses. Lúthien blushes bright red, and later I could never get Maedhros or any of the others to repeat them, despite my insistence that my interest was scholarly alone.


	2. Really Not a Good Idea

**II.**

"What does Mandos have to do with this?" I demand. "And how do we know that those initials even stand for Námo Vëfantur Mandos? They could mean anything!"

"Oh, so it's _we_ now, is it?" Celegorm smirks. "And if you have a better solution, I'd _love_ to hear it."

Aredhel decides to side with me. "She's right, Tyelko. It could stand for anything."

"Well, who else do we know who could send us here?" Celegorm says irritably.

"Morgoth," she says.

"Ai!" Lúthien winces. "Don't say that name."

Aredhel ignores her. "Manwë. _Eru_. Besides, it was on the box, it might not even refer to the sender, it might be, oh, New Valley Mail?" she hazards. Celegorm snorts.

"Would you please be quiet?" Maedhros interrupts, rubbing his forehead wearily. "I'm trying to think."

"Be quiet, Russandol's thinking," Celegorm announces to the rest of us somewhat unnecessarily. Maedhros is muttering rapidly in Quenya under his breath, eyes closed. Celegorm is eyeing Lúthien appreciatively, which she clearly doesn't enjoy.

I close my own eyes and turn to face the wall for a minute. This is a dream. This must be a dream. I must have fallen asleep over my laptop or something. This isn't happening. Because very suddenly I have four gorgeous Elves in my bedroom. At precisely 12:09 in the morning.

I really need some sleep. I wish I could just pinch myself hard enough and wake up to find myself again on the couch watching Michael and Lucifer fighting to the death. I wonder vaguely who won.

"Ruadhnait, did you say anything- wish for anything- so as to provoke such an-" He can't seem to find the right words.

"Does it matter? Maitimo, look. I need to figure out what's going on here- I don't care who sent you- before my family calls the police." Maedhros looks at me sharply. _Of course_. I just said his mother-name.

…which might touch a nerve, but why? Nothing like that in the legends…

The legends. _The legends_. I'm not supposed to know _any_ of their names. I'm not supposed to know who they _are_. My entire collection of Tolkien materials is lined up very enticingly on the shelf for any inquisitive Elven eyes to see. I force down a rising sense of panic. They aren't even supposed to _exist_. How are they going to feel about Tolkien's publishing their life for the world to see? I try to keep my voice from cracking as I say, "We need to talk to my parents."

And so we do. I have to say this for the Elves- they are really very polite, especially given the reception they meet. Catherine screams when she sees them. Grace hides behind my mom, who is still deathly pale. "What the _hell_ are you doing in my house?" my dad demands. My heart sinks. Why us, why now, we _really_ don't need this kind of trouble. (Damn you, Mandos.) Maedhros gives a courteous bow.

"I apologize for the disturbance, sir."

"How did you get _in _here?"

"We were carried in," Maedhros says gravely. "By your daughter." He indicates me.

"The plush toys that came today- well, yesterday. I guess they turned into them," I say desperately.

"You're expecting us to buy _that_?" My dad's voice rises rapidly.

"I don't blame you," Celegorm says kindly. "I think the whole story of us being plush is nonsense, myself." Aredhel sighs.

"I see no other explanation, sir," Maedhros says. "I really do apologize. Trust me, our coming here was not voluntary."

All eyes turn to me. "Ruadhnait?" my dad says suspiciously. I peek through my fingers.

"I don't know anything," I say. "I swear. They just- came here. It's true that I picked up a weird package at the post office yesterday, but I don't see what that has to do with this. I really don't know." Even to myself, I'm beginning to sound hysterical, so with some effort, I stop.

Maedhros forces a smile. "Let's put this another way. We- my brothers, my cousin, and-" He stops short, unsure what to call Lúthien.

"My fiancée," Celegorm says with a broad smile. Lúthien glares.

Maedhros sighs. "-are travelers, if you will. We do not know how we got here. We don't know how to get home. We sorely need a place to stay. We wouldn't impose on you, but we have no money for lodging elsewhere."

Mentally, I facepalm. Tolkien being the bloody-minded medievalist that he was would have of course imbued Middle-earth with the same kind of host-guest honor code that, say, the ancient Greeks had. At least I _think_ it was the ancient Greeks. (A fat lot of good ten years of history courses have done me.)

"And I promise we're not high," Aredhel says in the tense silence that follows. "Or drunk. Or both." The small part of me not completely overwhelmed by the strangeness of this night wonders vaguely whether it is possible to get high and drunk at the same time.

Still more silence. I squeeze my eyes shut tightly, hoping that when I open them again the Elves will be gone. I try it. (I have no such luck.)

"All right," my dad says finally. "But the first suspicious thing that happens, we're calling the police, and you're out, no ifs, ands, or buts." I stare in surprise. I didn't expect an answer so positive. I expected immediate 911 calls. But I'm definitely not complaining. This is…if not exactly good, then perhaps a step in that direction.

We end up installing the Elves on various couches around the house, as we don't have too many spare beds. Lúthien claims the guest room, which was being used as a sewing room-slash-practice room-slash-storage space. I clear the laundry off the bed and push the various parcels and bags into a corner before turning to face Lúthien. The bed's unmade. She smiles sympathetically. "I'll make it, it's all right."

"The sheets are in the closet down the hall," I say before going to see to the rest of my guests. Celegorm ends up on the aforementioned blue couch which still has my laptop lying on it. Aredhel has the living room couch, and Maedhros the sofa in the den.

Catherine has been following us around. "What did you say your name was again?" she says to Maedhros as he attempts to fit his long, lanky on the beige couch in the den.

"Maitimo Nelyafinwë," he says. "Son of Fëanáro. My brothers call me Russandol. Maedhros will do."

Catherine's jaw drops. "You're not-"

"I'm afraid I am," he says shortly. Catherine backs away very slowly.

I only rescue my laptop before crawling off to bed. I lie awake for a long time in the darkness, watching the minutes tick by. 12:33. 12:34. 12:35. I can hear the low murmur of my parent's voices in their room next door. 12:37.

Eru. _Elves_. They aren't even supposed to be real. (I'm going to have to reinvent my definition of real.)

Precisely four hours and seventeen minutes later, I discover that not only are Elves uncomfortably real, they are uncomfortably early risers. I drag myself out bed and down the stairs to find Celegorm and Aredhel, fully dressed, in the middle of a vociferous argument in Quenya. "Guys," I say, leaning against the doorway. "Go back to sleep. It's four in the morning."

"I am not a guy," Aredhel says, mildly offended.

"Fine," I say. "_People_."

"Noldor, actually," Celegorm says cheerfully.

"Whatever you are," I say, exasperated. "Go back to bed."

"It's morning," Aredhel says stubbornly.

"And far too early for anyone to be up," I say. I turn and leave, flicking off the light as I go.

Maedhros gets up at around seven, about the same time I do. I bump into him as I come down the stairs. He's yawning and attempting to braid his hair with one hand. I try not to stare. "You're still here," I say somewhat pointlessly.

"Yes, I believe so," he says wryly, loosening the collar of the same black dress shirt he was wearing yesterday. I struggle to keep up with his long stride as we head towards the kitchen.

"Celegorm a late sleeper?" I say. I haven't seen a sign of him. Maedhros shakes his head.

"No, he took Huan out. He should be back soon." Huan. My heart sinks. I'd completely forgotten about the enormous hound padding silently at his master's heels. Just the thought of the third son of Fëanor taking a casual stroll down my quiet small-town streets makes me very nervous. Maedhros laughs a little.

"He can handle it." We have reached the kitchen by now, where a stiff silence prevails between Aredhel and Lúthien. Aredhel is frowning at "The Wall Street Journal", trying, I imagine, to make sense of mortal news. "What is the Dow Jones Industrial Average?" she asks as I come in.

"I'm not sure myself," I admit sheepishly.

My dad has gone to work. My sisters are both still sleeping, and my mom is nowhere to be found. My dog, an elderly golden retriever, wags his tail furiously as Celegorm comes in with Huan.

It is perhaps seven-thirty on a brilliant sunny morning. Celegorm lounges against the windowsill, the sunlight catching in his golden hair, hand resting on Huan's head as the dog leaps up and puts his paws on Celegorm's chest. Aredhel sits at the table, legs crossed elegantly and her inky black hair pinned up as she peruses the editorial section of the Wall Street Journal. Lúthien enters a moment or two later, and I don't miss the way Celegorm's eyes follow her as she crosses the room. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Maedhros' apologetic half-smile.

"Well," I say brightly. "Coffee, anyone?"


	3. Also Not a Good Idea

Version:1.0 StartHTML:0000000185 EndHTML:0000019782 StartFragment:0000002373 EndFragment:0000019746 SourceURL:file:/localhost/Users/pgerdes/Desktop/rehash%20of%20the%

**Chapter 3**

"Coffee?" Aredhel says suspiciously. "What is coffee?"

"You don't know what coffee is?" I squeak. "How did you _live_ beforehand? I mean," I say hastily, very much aware of four pairs of eyes staring at me in bewilderment. "It's really good. We drink it to…get energy. To be less tired." Why, oh _why_, can I not form a coherent sentence?

Celegorm saves me. "I'll have some," he says. I fumble with the coffee machine and end up pouring it on the floor. I yelp in consternation and reach for a paper towel. Celegorm snorts but nods when I hand him a mug full of the steaming black liquid. He lifts it to his lips "Wait!" I cry. He stops, raising his eyebrows at me. "I mean," I say, feeling heat creep into my cheeks, "do you want some cream, or sugar. It's kind of…bitter otherwise."

"I think I'll be fine, thanks," he says. He raises it again and drinks the whole cup in one gulp. Aredhel rolls her eyes.

"That was good," he says. "I'll have some more, if you don't mind."

"Oh," I say, a little breathlessly. "I'm glad you like it. But, um, we might want to leave some for the others?" I smile hopefully. He subsides, looking a little disappointed, then puts the mug back on the counter.

They end up eating cereal and toast and drinking milk for breakfast. We sit at the table in the dining room, since we don't all fit at the kitchen table and my mother and sisters won't go within twenty feet of the Elves anyway. Maedhros has found a National Geographic somewhere and is leafing through it with casual interest. Aredhel has moved on to the Personal Journal section of the newspaper and is frowning at a review of the latest iPhone and instructions for couples on how to avoid arguments. Celegorm is feeding Huan scraps from his plate and laughing as the dog snaps at them eagerly, his tail thumping against the floor. Lúthien is inching her chair away from Celegorm's.

I glance at the clock. It is eight forty-two, and I am going to be late for class if I don't hurry up. I leap up from my chair and start clearing away the dishes. Maedhros rises courteously to help me, but Lúthen is sipping coffee and looking prim, and Aredhel and Celegorm are busy hissing at each other in vehement Quenya.

We wash the dishes in record time. My heart drops into my stomach when I realize how much food is gone from the pantry. But really, I shouldn't be surprised, considering the number of people living in the house has nearly doubled.

When the last plate (scrubbed to a sparkling shine worthy of any dishwasher-soap ad) has been dried and stacked in the cabinet, I realize that the Elves are all staring at me expectantly. "Wait a sec," I say. "I'll be right back." I dash upstairs and brush my teeth quickly, then throw my books into a tote bag. "Come on," I say, as I throw on my coat and re-braid my hair quickly. "Let's go."

"Go where?" says Aredhel, bewildered.

"Class." I take a writing course at the nearby home of a retired English professor. The Elves follow me willingly enough out the door. Outside, it's bitingly cold. Lúthien buries her nose in the collar of the pea coat she's borrowing from me. Maedhros and Celegorm claim that the chill doesn't bother them at all. And Aredhel, clad in jeans, boots, and a leather jacket, is perfectly warm. Thank goodness, at least, that when the Plushies became Elves they abandoned their First Age garb for 21st century clothing.

We cut through my backyard and walk single file along the narrow strip of grass between my neighbor's yard and the road next to it, then jaywalk a busy intersection. Once we reach the corner of the street where my teacher lives, I realize very suddenly that whatever plans I may have previously had in my head are not going to work. I can't expect three Noldor and a Sinda (fine, half Maia) to hang out in a quite neighborhood street and not attract some attention. If I were going someplace more crowded, I could sit them in a library or at a coffee shop with no worries. Well, fewer worries. This time… I check my phone. It's 9:23. "Okay," I say quickly. "Here's what you need to do. Listen up, all of you. Go down this street until you see a field with a large brick building at one end. It says 'Public Library' across the top. Go in there. Sit down at the chairs at one end. Pick out a book or two. Read it. Stay there. Meet me back here at 11:30. And do not, for the love of Eru, get into trouble. Maedhros," I say. "Watch them. Don't make yourself conspicuous." He nods.

I watch as they set off down the sidewalk, towering over other pedestrians, drawing stares and honks from motorists. Maedhros' hair gleams like fire (very conspicuously) in the sunlight. I watch them until they vanish from my sight, then I all but run to my teacher's house, my bookbag banging painfully against my side.

Class is dreadful. My teacher asks me three times why I'm so distracted. I can barely stay focuses on anything for more than seconds at a time. Nightmarish visions of Elves going insane and attacking people, stepping heedlessly into traffic, robbing the coffee-shop register or, in general, making themselves _conspicuous_, run through my head for two hours.

When we are dismissed, I just about run from the room and out of the house and down the street to the corner where the Elves are supposed to meet me. A minute passes, then two, then five. A few people slow down when they see me, and one old lady even pokes her head out of her window to ask if I'm all right. There certainly aren't many other teenage girls standing on street corners clutching bookbags on these peaceful suburban sidewalks that mainly see jogging retirees and young mothers with strollers. I must look…conspicuous.

Ten minutes. I start walking in the direction the Elves are supposed to be coming from.

Fifteen minutes. My phone rings. "Where _are_ you?" My mother is almost in a panic.

"Looking for the Elves," I say between gritted teeth.

"Oh no," she says. "Did they run off?"

"Not exactly," I reply. "They just didn't meet me where I asked them to. I sent them to the library. I don't know where they are."

"You sent them to the _library_?" Her voice is incredulous.

"Well, what else could I do? You won't have them at home when I'm not around, and I couldn't exactly take them to class, could I?"

"Good heavens, Ruadhnait. Go find them, by all means. And be quick. I don't have all day, and neither do you." She really is remarkably calm, considering…

"Sure, Mom," I say. I snap the phone shut and keep walking.

I find the Elves heading at a very leisurely pace towards the corner. "Where _were_ you?" I cry in exasperation. "I thought I'd mislaid you."

Maedhros looks faintly amused. "Well, you didn't."

"That's good," I say briskly. "Let's go home, shall we? I have to…be somewhere soon."

We attract lots of inquisitive stares on the way back. Four beautiful Elves with one not-quite-so-beautiful mortal girl tagging along behind them are rather an unusual sight. "By the way," I say, breathless with the effort of trying to keep up, "Where did you go?"

"We went to the library," Celegorm says lightly.

"Anywhere else?" I have a sneaking suspicion that he's not telling me the whole truth.

Celegorm glances at Maedhros. "Would you say we went anywhere else?" he asks very casually. I cross my arms and look between the two of them. Maedhros sighs.

"We did go to the- what do you call it? See-Vee-Ess," he pronounces carefully. My heart sinks a little lower.

"What did you do at CVS?" I ask impatiently. I really dislike having to drag information out of them like this.

"Nothing," Celegorm says unconvincingly.

I glare at him. "_What_?" I demand.

"Looked around some," Maedhros says noncommittally.

"Got kicked out too, didn't you," I say, bracing myself for the worst.

"The young woman at the front did ask us to leave," Celegorm says in a very innocent tone. "I couldn't quite figure out why."


End file.
